


Transference

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A doorknob’s caress is the best Spock can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transference

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Emily_rugburn inadvertently [dared me](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/8058751). Their fault.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The compound is a strange one. The cozy rooms are all connected via doors on either side, pressed together in a giant swirl, a trail, so that to get to the very center, one must walk through all the preceding rooms around it. The captain, as the most honoured guest, is, naturally, lead to the very center, Spock, his second, _his first officer_ , is directly behind. Sulu is given the room on Spock’s other side, and the landing party goes on from there. With the alien Prime Minister’s farewell still buzzing in his ears, Spock watches his t’hy’la disappear through the wall, pulling the manual door tightly closed behind him. 

It clicks into place, and Spock, left horribly _alone_ , stares at the rectangular cut out. 

The door on his other side is just as shut. It hardly matters. Spock has no need for Sulu at the moment, has no need for anyone, now that the Prime Minister has offered them eccentric rooms for the night. First contact will continue tomorrow, as per Mrennenimus VI’s traditions, and they will unfurl from their ceremonial hotel and see the planet in fresh light. The light in the room now is entirely artificial, shinning down from the iridescent ceiling, absorbed by the brown carpets that encase the entire room—floor, walls, and doors alike. The bed itself is a fuzzy, round thing, and though Spock knows he’s meant to retire, he finds it harder than he should.

He thought this would be easier. _Pon farr_ is over; he’s sure of it. The last of the tremours dissipated yesterday; his logic seemed sound. Dr. McCoy confirmed his stabilized condition enough to justify assignment in the landing party. And yet... and _yet_...

He finds himself irrationally _longing_ for his bondmate, for the one on the other side of the door that can hold him and soothe him and entangle with him for the long night ahead. It’s against Mrennenimian policies. He cannot go through the door. He must remain in his room, as they all must, to complete the spiral. Federation policy. He must respect the aliens and comply. He must. But Jim... _Jim_.

Like a wraith, Spock glides towards the door, his bare feet squishing down the plush carpet. His boots and tunic have been stripped away—more tradition—leaving him in the standard black pants and black shirt of his uniform—the only things Jim will be wearing, and the image of his mate forms in his mind. He considers reaching through the bond, _feeling_ Jim, turning the subtle presence into a wave of conscious thought, but his reason holds him back; it would only make their parting more unbearable.

Instead, he sinks to his knees against the soft door, cheek resting against the surface as his fingers spread along it, something akin to a mind meld. The object will not relinquish to him, but the movement is sheer instinct. His breathing is more rapid than it should be, deeper, coming harder—a relapse, perhaps? But the _pon farr_ shouldn’t work that way. But then, he shouldn’t be alone, not so soon after his bonding...

His hand climbs the door, searching, and slips along the hard surface of the doorknob: a primitive, cool metal thing, different than the other surfaces. It doesn’t have the same carpet to shield him from it, and his fingers slide easily around it, encasing it, squeezing once; this is the last thing Jim touched. His presence still lingers. Spock’s eyes flutter closed. Perhaps if he can initiate meditation while in contact with this object, it will sooth him. All but two fingers fall from the cold sphere. He traces it lightly: a Vulcan kiss over the remnants of _Jim_. 

Spock breathes out deeply. This is very, very bad. Improper. If his father knew...

 _Illogical_. His father married a human: just as flawed. Spock is only doing what he must. He cannot be held responsible for what _pon farr_ , even the last lingering threads, propels him to do. He caresses the round handle, rubbing into it, as his body turns to press into the door, Jim, _Jim_ , and he thinks, however mad it might be, that Jim is _just_ on the other side, so very close...

Spock’s hips rut against the door, and his mouth twists, a light snarl in his throat. The carpet will muffle the sound. He is alone; no one will know his shame. For a moment, he thinks the doorknob twists, ever so subtly, beneath his fingers, but he knows that cannot be. He is imagining things. Vulcans do not imagine. Humans do. He is part human. He has bonded with a human. Is it Jim, attempting to reach him, though on this small world, it’s forbidden? How can they be forbidden? They are bonded, _part of each other_. Jim is his to hold. Spock runs his fingers higher and rubs his palm against the sleek surface, his body now writhing against the door. He’s humping it like a sehlat in heat. His cheeks are green with his shame. But he can’t stop.

He breaks and surges through the bond, careening for Jim, greater than he should; he can feel his lover reeling back from the sudden touch, and then, like a blessed, warm fire, Jim is _in_ him, all around him. Jim holds him and promises: _I’m here, I’m here._ He can almost feel Jim’s steps, and then the handle twists again, the subtle movement enough: it carries Jim’s intent, is that touch, as little as they can share, but their love is strong enough to transmit through such weak means. His hand encases the handle, and he squeezes tighter, tighter, clutching at it desperately. _I’m here with you, Spock, I’m always here..._

_Jim._

With a wordless cry, Spock breaks. His mouth falls open and his body tenses, his hips stilling, as the front of his pants dampens with the proof of his embarrassment, and with both hands, Spock grabs and holds onto the doorknob. It twists in them one last time.

Then Spock is slumping and curling in on himself, panting as he shakily purrs to his mate: _Thank you._ His fingers hesitate, then, finally, uselessly fall free.

 _I love you, t’hy’la,_ Jim responds, strong and unmistakable. A more worthy mate Spock couldn’t have found in the entire galaxy. _Now sleep, know that I’m with you, and we’ll be together again in the morning._

Spock shakily exhales. His head lowers, and his tongue traces over his lips, perhaps a habit he’s inherited from his one-too-many melds with his captain. Then, on unsteady legs, he pushes to his feet. He straightens his shirt about his waist, and he attempts to stand, tall and proud, as though his transgression never occurred. 

He stalks towards the bed. His blood is boiling back down. His arms long to hold his mate in them, but for now, this will do. He slips onto the raised, cushions surface, and he buries his face in it. When he closes his eyes, he’s with Jim in his mind. 

_You are my everything._

_I love you._


End file.
